Silence
by Kyubi4Hokage
Summary: Portugal is not used to a quiet house, and he worries it will drive him mad. No set in stone pairings, though you can infer a few.


A/N: Just wanted to show some love for Portugal. The time period is during the Salazar regime, around the time of the aftermath of the Civil War in Spain, when the only three countries to have relations with Portugal were American, Britain and Spain.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

**Warning!** Dark themes ahead, such as insanity and suicidal thoughts!

* * *

Portugal sighed, looking around his house. It hadn't changed much over the years, and he was certain that many of the things he had now- the pictures, the ornaments, the memories- would last. What had changed was just how quiet things had gotten.

Before, there would be kids of all age and color running around the corridors, smiling and laughing and playing and for once, the Iberian nation didn't feel the need to hold back his joy. The joy that his younger brother had previously stolen, the joy that years on the ocean had ebbed away, the joy that only his children- both biological and adopted- could bring.

That time was over, now, even if he had fought to keep the last of his empire in the house. He just needed someone to stay with him and keep it from being so quiet.

The house was awful when it was quiet. The floorboards squeaked and the faucets leaked. The brunette was reminded how old the house was, and in turn how old he was, every time something needed repaired. He was reminded of his sons and how they would grin in excitement when their _pai_ would show them how something was fixed. He was reminded of the different smells that would fill the kitchen as he and his children cooked, every meal being different than the night before, almost always from a different continent as well. But that was gone now.

Portugal had to take the pictures down. He couldn't bare to see anyone's face, even his own. They were packed up and pushed into boxes, shoved into closest and old bedrooms that he didn't use anymore. The mirrors that could be removed were, and those that couldn't stood in haunting reminder, in mockery of the man reflected in their ever-changing gaze.

He hated how quiet it was. Sometimes he would hear the laughter of days passed, or the arguments between nations- England, Holland, Belgium, his brother... all of them would end in violence or sex, and he wasn't sure which he preferred more. As long as things were loud and he was reminded of the warm, comfortable life he had. As long as he knew he was at least loved by someone in some way, and not scorned and pushed to the side of the continent like his country already was.

It was hard to see people anymore. Government officials would come by to drop off work, but never to chat or inform him of the dealings of his nation. England would visit when he could with whatever news he could bring, and America often came by with whatever necessities he thought the Iberian man needed. Portugal would work with what he got, but never felt as if he was satisfied.

Never satisfied, even after his only family would come to visit. His little brother, driven mad by a division in the government, and there was nothing he could do to help. The silence was almost enough to push him over the edge as well, and sometimes Spain would laugh at his brother, and stare at him with steely-green eyes, as if trying to pull the crazy out of Portugal as well. As if he wanted a partner in this forced insanity, and he could maybe find one in his older brother.

The only thing Spain could force from his brother was a small conversation about their bosses. About how strict the society was and how gray the skies seemed. The only thing Portugal dreamed of coaxing from Spain was the glimpse of his real brother, the one who seemed to go by Antonio, the one who was not a pirate or a conquistador. The one who valued human lives, especially those who fought against this wretched system. The one who often forgot he was even a nation, solely because he was so consumed with the passion of life and all it had to offer.

Those days never came, and the skies grew ever more gray. The house grew ever more quiet as well, his own brother stopped coming by to visit. America only dropped in when necessary. Work was doubled. He didn't see England anymore. The silence left his lungs heavy, aching for the air of freedom and speech. His face longed to smile again- to smile and truly mean it and to have people recognize that joy. His hands longed to work in the field again, and his body wanted to rock along to the gentle motions of a boat on the ocean. Portugal wanted free of his house, and for the first time in his life, of his country.

He wanted to be human.

He wanted to die.

He just wanted the house to stop being so damn quiet.


End file.
